Written for the sparo_exchange this Christmas.

Sex, guilt, allusions to potential paedophiliac feelings. Happy days. orz

Romano never said anything, but Spain had an unnerving feeling that he knew.

Their first time making love had been somewhat of an awkward, quiet affair, more than likely far from what his former charge had been hoping for, or expecting, with Spain acting the hesitant, unsure partner, even though he was far from a blushing virgin.

Romano had said nothing after they'd finished, the expanse of his back the only glimpse that he would allow the other. In those almost silent moments, punctuated only by the heaving of heavy breaths, Spain had feared (and hoped, and dreaded, and prayed) that Romano would never come to his bed again.

And then Romano had muttered a quiet thanks, apparently mistaking Spain's inner turmoil for gentleness. Spain responded to that with some inane comment and a broad grin plastered to his face. Inside he hated himself for the way in which he had whispered the depths of his love as he came. Hated himself for how much he had meant it.

Whether Romano knew or not, he returned to Spain's bed the next night.

'Stop smiling at me like that, you idiot,' Romano spat, slamming his fork down onto the table with a sharp clatter.

Spain's grin only grew wider. 'Ahhh, but Romano, it's so cute when you pretend to hate my food, but eat it anyway!'

'Stop calling me cute,' Romano snapped back at him.

'But you are!' Spain cooed. 'Just like a-'

'Say it, and I jam this fork in you.' The way in which Romano was staring levelly at him caused Spain to reassess just how serious he was. His expression, however, did not waver, his adoration for the younger man, as always, manifesting itself upon his face in the form of a bright smile.

They spent the rest of the meal chatting (or more precisely, with Spain rambling on about how he'd spent his life in the one day that he hadn't seen Romano, and the other grunting noncommittally in response) and munching away on the food that Spain had spent the afternoon cooking. When they were finished, Spain cleared the plates away as Romano wandered into their favourite sitting room.

Just like always. Spain couldn't help his fond smile as he stared wistfully out of his window, hands mindlessly washing the plates in soapy water as his eyes focused upon the neat lines of tomato plants out in the garden. Memories of a much younger Romano waiting for him in the sitting room sprang to his mind, demanding that he be allowed a glass of sherry; whining, and pouting when he was refused. Naturally the little sod had snuck some (some being almost an entire bottle) anyway on a night when Spain had been out later than usual, leaving the elder to find him hunched up, shaking and vomiting next to his chair. After that little incident, he had never begged Spain for sherry again.

Chuckling at the memory, Spain flicked his hands dry, and sauntered out of the kitchen, heading towards the sitting room.

'Took you long enough, idiot,' Romano muttered as Spain entered the room, though he did not break his staring contest with his glass of wine.

For the briefest second, Spain went to admonish him. The desire was gone in an instant, wiped away by the strangely cold logic that reminded him that Romano had bought the wine himself and was more than entitled to drink it.

Outwardly, he offered Romano a dim- looking smile.

'Sorry!' he responded in a sing- song sort of voice.

Romano shrugged at him, raising his glass to his lips and gulping down the last of his wine. Spain wordlessly watched him pour another glass, shaking his head when Romano tilted the bottle towards him in a gesture of offering.

'Whatever,' Romano tutted. 'Your loss.'

Spain continued to smile at him - 'Romano, you cannot have the sherry! You're too young! You'll get sick!' - and sat down upon the settee alongside the younger man. He talked, as usual, to chase away the silence, commenting upon the film on the television that neither of them was really watching, and pretending that the wine that Romano was consuming rather rapidly wasn't bothering him for some unfathomable reason.

It was only twenty minutes later that Romano's hand found it's way onto his upper thigh. Spain pretended not to notice it, babbling on instead about how nice the soundtrack to the film was.

The touch moved to his inner thigh, a fleeting movement before Romano apparently grew bored of Spain's thick- headedness and threw his right leg across Spain's lap, sliding over so that he was sitting fully upon the elder man's thighs. He leaned in close for a kiss. Spain pulled back slightly.

'You're drunk, Romano,' he said. To the rest of the world it sounded teasing and affectionate. To himself it sounded like desperation.

Romano blinked at him, brows creasing in irritation. 'No, I'm a bit tipsy. What the fuck is the problem?'

'No problem,' Spain lied with an easy smile that had no time to fade before Romano covered it with his own mouth.

The action was familiar, the taste was familiar, the way in which Spain's mind seemed to melt was familiar, the self- hatred and guilt that Spain felt when Romano pulled away was so terribly, and horribly familiar.

And yet still Spain's trembling hands came up to grasp at the back of Romano's shirt, dragging, and pulling him, and clinging to him as if he was life itself, devouring his mouth, and his skin as if he was ambrosia.

Desire surged through him -lust, the second sin, gold lust, blood lust, greed, he was so greedy, always moremoremoremore, he wanted and wanted, and if it wasn't given to him, then he fucking took what he wanted, and he would consume, and control, and conquer- battering against the poorly constructed dams built from his pitiful morality. His passion burned him, and he wanted it to burn Romano too. There was little use in fighting it. It was what Romano wanted, and if that was the case, then it was okay. It was all okay. Romano led, and he followed. If he was only doing what Romano wanted then it was okay.

Romano stood, siding off his lap in a sensual movement that sent a thrill running through him, stirring his rapidly hardening cock all the more –moremoremore. Romano led him out of the room with darkened eyes, and soft touches, making his skin tingle and his mind float as if he was drunk, almost stumbling after him. Romano pushed him to his (their?) bed, hastily unbuttoning his shirt, and fly both, exposing him and the evidence of his lust.

Spain could only stare blankly at the ceiling, savouring in the feeling of Romano's alarmingly steady hands –small hands, tiny hands, so cute! His sweet little boy. His precious child- running self- assuredly across his chest, and lower still, touching his cock with little ceremony, moving lower still to trace across his balls.

The temperature increased sharply, and he almost choked when Romano took his dick into his mouth, sloppy, but enthusiastic, worshipping Spain with his mouth in a way in which he would never allow with words. It caused a nasty sense of victory to run through Spain –yesyesyesyesyes submit to me. Adore me- and suddenly no small part of him wanted to clutch, and tear, and rend. He had to grip at the sheets just to stop himself from ripping at Romano's hair, desperately trying to quell the lust –sex, blood, gold, moremoremoremore- roaring in his ears.

Romano, mistaking it for the need to orgasm, sucked harder for a moment, before releasing him.

'You're lacking in stamina, it seems,' Romano chuckled huskily.

'I'm an old man,' Spain responded weakly. Romano continued to laugh, as if Spain had made a joke.

'You'd better find some then, because you wouldn't want to let me down, would you?' Romano smirked.

Spain gulped at the expression, heart thudding in his chest. Oh but I have, Romano. I have. In the worst way imaginable. 'Of course not,' he said instead.

'Well, get on with it then,' Romano frowned, his former good humour apparently vanishing. 'Anyone would think that you didn't want to.'

'I want to.' The truth this time. His whisper almost raw from the conviction in his tone, sounding rough, as if the moment the words had left his mouth they had turned acidic and poisonous. I want I want I want I want. He wanted. The depths of his want had always unsettled him in his clearer moments, the extent of his greed disquieting. His want for Romano, however, all- consuming and overwhelming terrified him, because, to his perpetual horror, he could never quite remember when it had begun. 'I want you,' he groaned, the sound almost strangled, as if it had caused him great pain. 'I want you so much.'

Romano –poor, naïve, cute, precious, beloved Romano- smirked once again, missing the remorse in Spain's voice, taking the words as a compliment, as confirmation that his affections were returned just as thoroughly. 'Good,' he said.

Spain raised his hand, touching his fingers to Romano's cheek –sharp, not rounded- staring with little focus into his eyes – narrow, and full of wicked delight, not wide anymore, not innocent. His thumb moved to Romano's lips, still swollen from before –the same lips that had stolen his sherry, the lips who had taken in his dick- stroking across them with a revenant touch that could have been mistaken for gentleness.

A moment later, he had Romano on his back, pinning him to the bed as he pulled his clothes away, hands moving possessively over the skin that he found –imineminemine/i- mouth tasting him, groaning at the flavours that defined Romano. His hand –greedy hands, always grabbing for more- found and wrapped around Romano's cock, moving in fast, jerky motions without a moment's warning, panting at the noises that Romano made.

'Lube, you bastard, ungh,' Romano groaned. 'Use lube.'

Spain nodded in response, only half retaining enough wits to comprehend, and respond to Romano's order, flinging himself off him long enough to jerk the drawer next to his bed open and retrieve the lubrication. His hands shook as he squeezed it out, the cold fleeing as soon as his hands returned to Romano's burning cock. 'Why does it stand up?' Spain shook the memory away –goawaygoaway- tightening his grip as he willed his thoughts away. Romano groaned in response, spreading his legs wider. Spain's heart raced, the submission, and the obscene, wet sounds… he couldn't fight it. He was meant to be so strong, and so righteous. If he was a better man, he would have wept (but Romano wanted it, so it was okay, right? It was okay. This had to be okay.)

'Nnnrgh… An- Spain stop. I'm gonna come if you don't stop…'

'But why did I wet the bed? I thought that I'd stopped doing that years ago!' Romano sobbed, absolutely mortified.

Spain shifted from foot, to foot awkwardly. He'd always known that this day would come. 'Sit, Romano. I need to tell you about how you're growing up, and the changes that your body is going to go through…'-

Spain drove him on, begging the memory to leave him be, trying to drive it away with each persistent jerk of his fist.

'Jesus, Spain! Just fuck me already,' Romano all but shouted, writhing on the sheets, flushed and desperate, as if the Devil himself had laid him there before Spain as the very personification of temptation.

But this was not about religion. It never was. This was about the sick irony that was Spain driving his fingers into the body of the young man who, only a few short centuries before, he had taught what sex even was. Had he known then that one day he would be the one who would be fucking the man that his sweet little boy would become? He prayed that he hadn't, but he had long since forgotten.

Closing his eyes, he entered Romano, clinging on to him as he pushed in, possessive and apologetic. Romano's answering grunt was almost lost on him as the bliss overwhelmed him, surrounded by Romano; his beloved, beautiful, willing Romano.

-'That doesn't sound like it feels very good,' Romano said, wrinkling his nose.

'Ummmm,' Spain blushed slightly, feeling a little awkward. 'Well… it does when it's with someone that you love-'

'Why?'

'Because you feel it in your heart too,' Spain smiled, pointing to his chest. -

Burying his face into Romano's neck, he started to move his hips, rocking both himself and Romano, focusing on the mindless motions, willing them to chase away the regret, and the remorse, and the guilt. Romano's answering sounds covered up the quiet sniffle Spain made as tears leaked from his eyes, the movements hid his shaking, and the soft, apologetic motions he made with one hand in Romano's hair was misinterpreted as inane movements in the midst of passion.

As Romano clung onto him in return, groaning in his ear as his movements increased in speed, all Spain could think was "what had he done"? How could he have corrupted what they had had this much? How could he have betrayed Romano so badly? Taken all of those gentle, protective feelings, and thrown them aside for debauchery and lust?

There was something wrong with him. There was something fundamentally wrong with him. The boy he had raised, the boy that he had become a family with -Why won't you call me big- brother Spain, Romano?- the young man that he had come to crave, that he was fucking.

This was never, ever supposed to happen.

'I love you,' he gasped as Romano's orgasm surged through him, clutching on to him (had Romano ever really stood a chance? Realistically?) as he felt himself begin to follow. 'I love you.' It was a choked gasp, a plea. I love you with all of my heart, but I don't know in which way.

When he had finished spasming, finished defiling the body of the boy that he had spent so much of his life trying to protect, and rode out the final waves of his orgasm, Spain fell atop him, sweaty hands clutching at him mindlessly for a second, before the possessiveness faded. He was left with the sickening realisation that he had succumbed as easily as ever, a slave as usual to his own greed.

If he hadn't been so emotionally, and physically drained, he might have wept for what surely had to be the shattered, pitiful remains of his morality. Instead he gave Romano a bright smile, and a short kiss, before rolling on to his side and pretending to fall asleep.

Could he ever have guessed, he wondered as he concentrated on making his breathing sound even. Could he ever have guessed that this would happen, all of those long years ago when Romano came pattering into his room the night after he had rescued him from Turkey? He was too terrified of the answer and immediately stopped asking himself the question, a coward as always. A sick, pitiful coward.

'Your eyes give you away, you know,' Romano said quietly. It took all of Spain's concentration not to stop breathing in surprise. Was he supposed to respond, he wondered? No. Romano would never talk to him like that if he believed for a moment that Spain was awake.

'You sit there with that dumb smile plastered to your face, but your eyes are always so sad.' Romano paused to sigh heavily. 'I don't know what I can do to get you to forgive yourself.'

Stop loving me, Spain longed to say. Hate me. I'm sick. There's something wrong with me. It was never supposed to be like this. I was never supposed to be like this. We were never supposed to be like this.

None of this was okay. And yet, as long as Romano continued to say yes, he knew that he would always try to convince himself that it was.

He was a practiced liar, after all.

Figures that the next fic I wrote was comedy. Orz.